


you, who hangs the moon

by superhoney



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Chris Argent/Melissa McCall - Freeform, Derek Deserves Nice Things, Derek-centric, Domestic, Future Fic, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Minor Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Non-Penetrative Sex, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Slow Build, The Hale House, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: If you had told Derek, back when all of this started, that he would be invited to attend the wedding of Melissa McCall and Chris Argent, he would have laughed in your face. Or maybe just growled. He wasn’t doing a lot of laughing, then.In which Chris and Melissa get married, Derek does some interior decorating (literally and metaphorically), and he and Stiles finally get the quiet moments they’ve been denied all these years.





	you, who hangs the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond/gifts).



> This is a gift for my dear friend A_Diamond, whose enthusiasm for these two idiots finally convinced me to finish the series and develop a surprising depth of feeling about Chris/Melissa, which in turn led to me producing whatever this is. I’ve never attempted to write for Teen Wolf or Sterek before, so I hope it satisfies. An enormous thank-you to zaphodsgirl for stepping out of her fandom to beta this for me.

It’s a Tuesday morning when Derek catches an unfamiliar scent approaching the house. Immediately alert, he drops into a crouch as the scent grows stronger, reaches a peak, and then begins to fade. He waits until he can no longer smell the intruder, then cautiously opens the door, mindful of the recently repaired hinges.

There’s an envelope on the porch, leaning against the side of the door. 

He almost laughs at himself. Intimidated by the mail carrier. How they would laugh, anyone who knew him during those brief days of alpha-hood. His curiosity piqued, he leans down and picks up the envelope. Under the scent of the person who delivered it, there’s a faint of impression of someone else, someone familiar.

He flicks out a claw and slides it under the flap, neatly slicing the paper open. Several pieces of weighty cardstock come tumbling out, and he catches them before they hit the ground. _You are invited_ proclaims the first one, in large letters, and Derek feels a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his lips as he reads on.

If you had told him, back when all of this started, that he would be invited to attend the wedding of Melissa McCall and Chris Argent, he would have laughed in your face. Or maybe just growled. He wasn’t doing a lot of laughing, then.

But now, his smile grows as he continues to scan over the details. An August wedding, outdoors in the Preserve. Not too far from his house, in fact. If it gets to be too much, he can make a hasty retreat. He takes the invitation inside, digs around his kitchen until he finds a pen, and marks the date on his calendar, then circles it for good measure.

It’s been a long time since he had something to look forward to. Especially something as ordinary, as _human_ , as a wedding.

The beep of his phone distracts him from his thoughts, but he doesn’t panic. A text means it isn’t urgent. A call would be different. He’s not surprised to see that it’s from Lydia. She’s taken up the role of communications officer on their scrappy little team, some strange remnant from her time as Beacon Hill’s reigning social queen. Or maybe it’s a banshee thing. That’s what Stiles always jokes, that Lydia’s messages are just another version of her scream, forcing them all to pay attention to her.

_Did you get the invitation?_

_Got it_ , he confirms. _I’ll be there._

He goes back to the calendar and circles the date again. Just in case.

***

The next six months pass in relative peace, as though the universe is granting them this brief reprieve from the usual chaos of their lives. Derek is only summoned to one pitched battle against Monroe and her hunters, out in Nevada, and it’s over with minimal damage to the pack. In the quiet moments afterwards, holed up in some sketchy motel, Derek manages to pull Scott aside for a conversation he’s been meaning to have with him for some time.

“About the wedding,” he says, and watches as a look of surprise crosses Scott’s face. It’s the first time they’ve really discussed it. Derek can’t help wondering how Scott feels about it, not just his mother getting remarried but to Chris, of all people. 

“Yeah?” Scott’s cautious, still subdued from the fight, but he’s listening attentively. He’s come so far from the brash teenager Derek used to know. 

“I just wanted to offer my house as a back-up, if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”

Scott’s eyes widen, and everyone else with supernatural hearing abilities turns towards Derek, matching looks of surprise on their faces. “What?” he says tightly, feeling his cheeks begin to heat. “It’s the closest place.”

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice of you, Derek,” Scott rushes to respond. “I just-- didn’t know it was ready for guests.”

It isn’t, really, but it will be by August. Derek has been working on renovations to his family’s home ever since he came back to Beacon Hills for the final showdown with Gerard, slowly but surely building it back into some semblance of the stately but comfortable home it once was. The essentials are finished: his bedroom, the kitchen, two of the four bathrooms. But this will motivate him to get the rest of the house ready for visitors.

“Not yet, but it’s pretty awesome so far,” Stiles says, and everyone turns to look at him instead.

“You’ve been to the house?” Malia asks. She has, of course. More than pack, she’s family. And considering that she lived in the woods for years, Derek’s never been worried about impressing her. 

“Of course not,” Stiles scoffs. “Not that I haven’t tried. The last time I was home I got as far as the clearing outside before _someone_ ”-- a pointed look in Derek’s direction-- “started growling at me.”

“I didn’t growl,” Derek protests, but mildly.

“There were teeth exposed,” Stiles counters. “It was just like old times, except that his menacing tactics don’t work on me anymore.”

“Well, they must have, if you didn’t end up going inside,” Mason points out, ever the reasonable one. He quails under a sharp look from Stiles, and Derek fights back a small smile.

“Whatever,” Stiles continues, making a dismissive gesture. “Point is, I haven’t been inside. Yet. But I have been giving Derek plenty of advice on paint colours.”

“Paint colours,” Lydia repeats, while the others all continue to process this new information. It’s not a secret, exactly, how much Derek and Stiles text back and forth, but apparently it’s interesting enough to have thrown the rest of the pack off. 

“Well,” Lydia continues with a sniff, “your style has improved somewhat since high school, I’ll grant you that. But I’m not sure I would trust you with interior decorating. You should check with me before making any permanent decisions, Derek.”

Stiles makes a noise of protest, but Derek just nods. “Sure,” he says. There’s no point arguing with Lydia, he’s learned.

Because he has learned, these past few years. All the things he tried not to notice, the things he tried not to admire about all of them, these stupid not-kids-anymore and their flaws and their strengths. They’ve come a long way, all of them. Together. And he’s proud to call them pack, to fight beside them. Even if he isn’t leading them the way he once thought he would be. 

They have Scott for that, anyway.

Scott, who reaches out and grips Derek’s shoulder in acknowledgment of his offer. “I can tell my mom, about using your house,” he says. “But I think she’d like it if you told her yourself.”

Social calls aren’t exactly high on Derek’s list of priorities, but Melissa has always been surprisingly easy to talk to. Maybe it’s a side effect of years of work at the hospital, her easy bedside manner translating into a capacity for conversation in all circumstances. Or maybe it’s just her. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll let her know when I get back.”

A shadow passes over Scott’s face, and Derek winces. He knows how much it hurts Scott, not being in Beacon Hills all the time. He trusts Derek to keep the town safe, and things have been relatively quiet of late, but it’s still hard on him, having the pack so spread apart. 

But for now, they have the rest of the night before everyone goes their separate ways in the morning, back to school or jobs or the FBI training facility. Or back to a half-renovated house in the middle of the woods that’s far too big for one person, human or werewolf. 

After devouring a frankly staggering quantity of pizza, the pack slowly starts to drift off to separate rooms. Derek watches them trickle out, Corey and Mason with their hands entwined, Liam and Malia sharing some story that has her throwing her head back in laughter. Lydia covers her yawn with her hand and drops a fond kiss on Stiles’ forehead before retreating with a graceful wave, and then it’s just Scott, Stiles, and Derek left in the room.

“They’re getting less frequent, these fights,” Scott says eventually, breaking the comfortable silence. 

Derek notes that Scott waited until it was just the three of them before bringing up the subject. It shouldn’t warm him the way it does, to be counted among the inner circle. Stiles is Scott’s second, his best friend and best advisor, and Derek feels privileged to be here with them.

“I know,” he replies. “It should be a good thing, but--”

“But when do good things ever happen to us,” Stiles finishes for him. “Never. The answer is never.”

“Maybe we’re due for a change,” Scott says quietly. He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he’s trying. Trying to keep the hope alive. And that’s the reason Derek is proud to call Scott his Alpha, that indubitable spirit.

“Or maybe it’s the calm before the storm, and we just don’t know it yet,” Stiles points out, crossing his arms over his chest. It draws Derek’s attention to the width of his shoulders and chest, the muscles in his arms showing under his long-sleeved t-shirt. His gaze lingers too long, because Stiles’ eyes snap to meet his, and Derek looks away, guilty.

He’s getting careless. Or reckless. And they can’t afford to be either.

“We’ll be ready,” Scott vows. “We’ve been winning. We’re going to keep winning.”

Stiles sighs, and Derek can tell it’s a conversation they’ve had before by the way he doesn’t bother replying further. Personally, he tends to take Stiles’ more pessimistic (and he can practically hear Stiles insisting it isn’t pessimism, it’s realism) viewpoint, but it’s hard to argue with Scott when he’s radiating True Alpha conviction and strength. 

So they let the conversation fade as they get ready for bed, Stiles and Scott sharing one of the queen-sized beds with the comfort of long practice while Derek curls onto his side in the scratchy sheets and listens to their breathing even out before slipping into sleep himself.

In the morning, he drives Stiles to the airport. Stiles talks about the case he’s assisting with and the agents he likes and the ones he hates (“He has a goatee, Derek. How am I supposed to take him seriously?”), and Derek nods along and offers commentary in all the right places. And then Stiles hugs him, all long limbs and soft flannel, and Derek only has time to press his face into the crook of his shoulder and inhale for the barest second before Stiles is tearing himself away and heading towards the line for security. 

Derek watches as he walks away from him again, listening until he can no longer pick out Stiles’ heartbeat, wishing that just for once, he would stay.

***

It’s the week before the wedding, and Derek is fighting with the sink in the downstairs bathroom when he hears the familiar rumble of Stiles’ Jeep pulling up to the house. He wipes his hands on his tattered jeans and goes out to greet him, only becoming conscious of the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt when he sees the way Stiles’ gaze immediately drops to his bare chest.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before. Derek refuses to acknowledge that there might be something different in the way Stiles looks at him, because that way lies danger.

“Hey,” he says. “Welcome back.”

Stiles being Stiles, he barrels past all social niceties despite the fact that he used to complain about Derek’s lack of manners. Shouldn’t he be proud of how well he taught Derek? “Please tell me you have something productive I can do here,” he pleads. “Lydia is trying to rope me into folding place-cards. Place-cards, Derek. I don’t have the patience for that kind of fine detail work.”

There was a time, not so long ago, when Stiles would have been powerless to refuse Lydia’s requests. Or demands, to be more accurate. But when the dust settled and Stiles left for his FBI internship, whatever connection he and Lydia had built between them changed in some way. It’s still there, Derek knows, and it’s still deep and meaningful, but they’re not together, and he doesn’t think Stiles wants to be. 

Which is probably a good thing, considering-- “She’s got Parrish to do all that shit for her now, she doesn’t need me,” Stiles is saying, “but she’s still going on about how we all need to pitch in, so please, please tell me you have something else I can do.”

He’s giving Derek a wide-eyed, pleading look, and Derek crumbles under it, just like he knew he would. “Fine,” he says. 

“Finally!” Stiles exclaims, and make to brush past Derek and into the house. “Pictures don’t really do it justice, you know.”

Derek moves without thinking, blocking Stiles’ path. “Nice try,” he says. “You’re in charge of hanging the lights around the porch. Not going inside.”

“Oh, come on!” Stiles exclaims, arms flailing wildly against the injustice of it all. “I think I’ve earned the right.”

“You can wait a few more days,” Derek tells him. “It’s patio lights or place-cards, Stiles. What’s it going to be?”

Stiles mutters something under his breath that would be indecipherable to human ears, but Derek catches the word ‘sourwolf’ and feels his lips twitch in a grin. Wordlessly, he passes a box of lights over to Stiles, who accepts them with a sullen look.

“Warm-tone lights for a cozy, intimate atmosphere,” Stiles reads off the box. He looks up at Derek, his earlier crankiness gone in an instant, now practically cackling with glee. “How long did it take you to pick these out?”

“Shut up,” Derek mumbles, feeling the tips of his ears go pink. It’s possible that he spent an inordinately long time inspecting all the available varieties of patio lights before choosing these, which twinkle softly without looking tacky. They’ll look warm and welcoming, strung along the porch rails and twined around the two central columns that flank the steps up to the house. 

Or they will, if Stiles ever stops laughing at him long enough to actually put them up.

“I’m going back inside,” Derek announces. “And don’t even think about trying to sneak in. You know I’ll hear you.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles shoots back, but he makes a dismissive gesture and starts untangling the lights, evidently having accepted his fate.

Derek watches him for a minute, the way his long fingers gracefully pick apart the snarls in the cords, and then tears himself away before he does something embarrassing and awkward for everyone involved. 

He channels his frustration into the last of his work with the sink, and an hour later, the downstairs bathroom is fully functional, aside from the claw marks in the paint where he swiped at it during one particularly heated moment. He’ll touch that up later.

Derek washes the paint off his hands and grabs a few beers out of the fridge, then pulls the leftover pizza out of the oven and carries it all out to the porch.

He stops short as he takes in the sight before him. Stiles has gotten all the lights out of their boxes and hung them perfectly, the whole porch glittering with their light. The sun is just going down, the last of its rays barely visible above the trees, and the evening air is quiet, like a breath being held. 

It looks like something out of a dream, and when Stiles turns to look at him and tosses a smile over his shoulder in greeting, Derek’s heart clenches painfully in his chest.

“Looks good,” he says, nodding towards the lights. “I knew you would have been wasted on place-cards.”

“It does look good, doesn’t it,” Stiles says, sticking his hands on his hips and proudly surveying his work. “Oh, pizza!”

He takes the box out of Derek’s hands and sits down on the top step, moving so quickly Derek almost wonders if he really is just human. But he’s learned, over the years, that nothing lends speed to Stiles’ movements like the promise of food. Especially pizza. Shaking his head, Derek sits beside him and opens the beers, passing one over to Stiles before taking a long swallow of his own. 

The silence stretches between them, but there’s no discomfort in it. Derek closes his eyes and tilts his face back, feeling the last of the warmth from the sun fade from the air as the chill of the night breeze rises. Somewhere, deeper in the woods, he can hear something rustling in the underbrush: a squirrel, he thinks. Nothing that’s a threat, nothing they have to worry about right now.

“It’s funny,” Stiles says out of nowhere, “but when we were kids, Scott and I always imagined it would be his mom and my dad who got married.”

Derek opens his eyes and looks over at him. There’s a slight smile, not sad but wistful, curling at the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Derek wants to kiss it, that tiny upward quirk of his lips. But he doesn’t.

“We wanted to be brothers for real,” Stiles continues. “And Scott never wanted his mom to be alone. Especially after the whole werewolf thing happened.”

“Melissa can handle herself,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “Oh, I know,” he replies. “Not like that. Just...if something had happened to Scott, you know. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be alone.”

Derek nods, his throat suddenly tight. Just out of sight around the corner of the house is the patch of earth where he buried Laura all those years ago. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Stiles gives him a sidelong look, hesitates, then continues. “But I’m happy for her and Chris. They’re good for each other.”

Derek nods again, thinking how strange it is that he and Chris have become friends. After all the suspicion, the reluctant alliances, the life-or-death situations, Derek is going to watch him get married, and he’s going to be proud to be there. How strange.

“Speaking of good for each other--” Stiles’ tone is so deliberately casual that Derek’s heart skips a beat and he thanks God Stiles isn’t a werewolf, can’t detect the blip in his heart rate-- “did you know Kira and her parents are going to be there? They got in a few days ago.”

“That’s good,” Derek says carefully. It will be nice to see Kira. But he isn’t sure what that has to do with-- oh. 

“Scott’s already freaking out,” Stiles sighs. “I keep telling him he’ll have plenty of other things to thing about, but you know the way Scott gets about girls. And with the way Kira left, I don’t think he ever really got over her.”

“Didn’t take him long to move on with Malia,” Derek comments. He’s not trying to be judgemental, but he can’t help shaking his head at the memory of their high school drama, the way they seemed to fall in and out of each other’s beds at a moment’s notice. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, somehow managing to put his whole body into the movement. “That ended almost as soon as it began,” he reminds Derek. “And Scott and Kira have been texting for a while now, but they haven’t seen each other in person since she left.”

“Weddings,” Derek sighs. “Always with the dramatics.”

“Right, like our regular lives are so calm and settled,” Stiles scoffs. “I, for one, welcome to perfectly normal drama of a wedding, thank you very much.”

He makes a good point. Derek just shrugs and takes another sip of his beer, draining the bottle. “Want another?” he asks.

Stiles just passes him his empty bottle and gives him a brilliant smile. “Please.”

Three beers later, the sky is completely dark above them, but the lights look even more magical against it. The alcohol doesn’t affect Derek, especially when he’s drinking slowly like this, but Stiles is loose-limbed and even more expressive than usual, every word animated by gestures and facial expressions that should look ridiculous but are ultimately endearing to Derek.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Stiles says, staring off into the trees like he’s staring back through the years. “We were such idiots back then.”

“That would suggest that we aren’t anymore,” Derek points out. 

Stiles reaches out to smack him, but he’s tipsy and uncoordinated and he almost falls into Derek, who grabs him gently by the shoulders and keeps him upright. “My hero,” Stiles mumbles sarcastically. “Been your hero a few times, though. That night in the pool.”

Derek is about to bite out a snarky reply when he notices the way Stiles is shivering. He peels off his sweater and passes it over to him, glaring when Stiles looks like he wants to protest. It looks good on him, Derek notes. And now it’s going to smell like Stiles.

“We all look out for each other,” he says. “That’s what pack does.”

“Pack,” Stiles repeats, shaking his head. “Werewolves. Kanimas.” A shadow passes over his face, and Derek knows what he’s thinking, what other word could be added to that list. _Nogitsune_. But Stiles just swallows and moves past it. “Berserkers, dread doctors, the wild hunt. Our lives are ridiculous, you know that?”

“I know.” But Derek wouldn’t change any of it. Not really. Not when it’s brought them here, to a night like this. “But hey, we’re still here.”

“We are.” Stiles looks at him, the lights reflecting in his eyes, and Derek can hear his heartbeat, can smell the intoxicating scent of him, and he’s frozen in place, because Stiles has never looked at him like that, not that soft and fond and he’s leaning in--

And then he yawns so widely his jaw pops, and Derek winces at the sound, drawing back before he does something really, really stupid. 

“We should call it a night,” he says instead. “I have a feeling Lydia will have more work for us to do tomorrow.”

“I shouldn’t drive,” Stiles says ruefully, looking at the collection of empty beer bottles beside him. And then he’s looking up at Derek from under his lashes again, his meaning clear, and it takes all of Derek’s considerable willpower not to just sweep him up in his arms and carry him into the house and into his bed. 

“Nice try,” Derek says lightly. “You’re still not getting into the house.”

Stiles blinks at him, then scowls. “You’re the worst,” he informs Derek. 

“If I was the worst, would I be driving your drunk self home?” Derek holds out his hand, palm up. “Keys.”

“How are you going to get back here after?” Stiles asks.

“I’ll run.” It will help him relax, help him shake this itch under his skin, the one he always gets when he’s around Stiles. “Won’t take me long.”

“Show-off,” Stiles says, but he reaches into his pocket and drops the keys to the Jeep into Derek’s hand. 

They drive in silence, and when Derek pulls up in front of Stiles’ house, he cuts the engine but doesn’t move. “Thanks for helping out,” he says eventually.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers. “Thanks for feeding me.”

Gently, Derek prods him in the ribs. “You’re getting skinny again.”

It’s not true, really. Stiles will always be slender, but he’s put on muscle over the years, the kind that he covers with his baggy t-shirts but reveals itself at the most inopportune moments. Like when Stiles pulls Derek’s sweater over his head, the motion exposing the corded muscles in his forearms and his t-shirt lifting to offer a tantalizing glimpse of one sharply cut hip. 

“And thanks for that,” Stiles says, passing it back to Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Anytime.”

It doesn’t make sense, but Stiles doesn’t call on him on it, just gives him a half-smile and tumbles out of the Jeep. Derek helps him to the door and presses the keys back into his hand.

“Night, Derek,” Stiles calls as he lets himself into his house.

“Goodnight, Stiles.” The door shuts behind him, but Derek waits until he sees the light go on in Stiles’ bedroom window and then go off again a few moments later. It isn’t long before Stiles’ heartbeat evens out as he falls asleep, and only then does Derek turn and lope away down the street, back to his own house, too big and empty for him alone.

***

They never really intended to have a bachelor party for Chris. He’s old, or so he insists, and he’s been married before, and he wants to celebrate being married to Melissa, not his last night of freedom or whatever the typical excuse is for these things.

But they never counted on the girls insisting on a bachelorette for Melissa, leaving the men somewhat stranded without them. “Might as well hang out,” the sheriff says with a shrug. 

Parrish nods seriously. “Lydia has declared the entire house off-limits,” he says. “I’ve never seen so many dick decorations in my life.”

So somehow, they’re all gathered at the sheriff’s house, Chris dragged along despite his protests. Derek shows up at half past eight as expected, a small box tucked under one arm and a case of beer in his other hand.  
Stiles opens the door and grins at him. He’s wearing a bright red party hat slightly askew on his head and his eyes are bright. His breath smells of alcohol, but only faintly, and Derek can’t help smiling at the sight of him.

“Is that for me?” he asks, batting his eyelashes as he looks at the neatly-wrapped package Derek is holding. “How sweet.”

“Sure,” Derek says, “you go ahead and try to take it away from Chris. I’d like to see that fight.”

Stiles scoffs but steps aside to let Derek into the house. “Fine,” he sighs. “It can go with the others.” He points to a small pile on the table in the living room, and Derek dutifully deposits his gift before following Stiles back into the kitchen.

He shouldn’t be surprised at how many people are there, but he is. Besides Stiles and the sheriff, there’s Scott, of course, along with Parrish, Liam, Mason, Corey, and even Deaton, looking like he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing there.

Aside from Stiles, Scott is the only one wearing a party hat. He tries to hand one to Derek, who gives him a flat look, and true Alpha or not, Scott backs down quickly enough.

“You’re no fun,” Stiles tells him. 

“I can be,” Derek replies absently, cursing himself when he catches the hitch in Stiles’ heartbeat, the spike of arousal in his scent. “I mean, I am here, after all,” he continues, trying to cover his slip.

Stiles just stares at him for a second, then shakes his head and laughs sharply. “Yeah, sure. Want a drink?”

Derek accepts a beer and goes to say hello to Chris, who is, after all, the reason for this gathering. “Congratulations,” he says.

He doesn’t know if that’s appropriate. He’s never been to a bachelor party before. The last wedding he attended was as a kid, back when _Argent_ was a name whispered by the adults to warn the Hale children about the danger that lurked outside the walls of their home. And now here he is, congratulating one of them on his upcoming marriage.

“Thank you,” Chris replies, offering his hand for Derek to shake. “This is all a bit odd, isn’t it?” He nods at the room around them, the small groups chatting away. 

“It is,” Derek agrees, “but it’s a good odd, I think.”

A small smile hovers around Chris’ lips. “A good odd,” he repeats. “Yes, I think it is.”

After about another hour, Stiles announces that it’s time to open presents. Chris seems surprised at the idea of receiving gifts, like he never expected that to be part of the evening’s festivities, and the genuine thanks he offers as he opens each one is enough to make coming here worth Derek’s while. 

His is one of the last gifts to be opened. He didn’t bother with a card, so Chris just pulls the paper off, revealing a small, square wooden box.

“Is that--” Deaton asks, leaning over to peer at it, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Derek mutters. 

“From the Nemeton?” Chris asks, looking up at Derek in surprise.

Derek shrugs, uncomfortable with the way everyone is looking at him. “There’s something inside.”

With reverent hands, Chris gently opens the box. Inside it is a short knife, the blade glinting under the lights. Etched into the polished wooden handle is a letter A.

“What is it?” Mason asks, curious as ever.

“It’s an old family heirloom,” Chris says hoarsely. “It went missing years ago, before I was even born.”

“When someone from your family tried to use it against someone from mine,” Derek says. There’s no bitterness in his voice, because there’s none left in his heart. Not towards Chris. “I figured it was about time it was back where it belonged.”

Chris looks up at him, his silver-blue eyes warm despite their hue. “Thank you,” he says, extending his hand to clasp Derek by the shoulder. “I-- thank you.”

Derek nods in response. The gift speaks for itself. A symbol of trust, of alliance. But more than that, of friendship as well. 

“Well, this is nice!” Stiles says brightly. “But you’ve got one gift left to open.”

He pulls a long, narrow package out from under the table and proudly presents it to Chris, who raises an eyebrow at the sight of the large yellow bow plastered to the centre of it, not quite covering the sloppy wrapping job. “What?” Stiles says. “It’s hard to wrap something that size, okay?”

Chris just shakes his head and dutifully unwraps the present. The paper falls open, revealing-- a gun?

Derek squints at it for a moment, confused. Chris owns a ridiculous number of guns. This one doesn’t look particularly old, or rare, or special.

But then Chris starts to laugh, his whole body shaking, and Stiles’ face lights up in a grin. “Paintball time!” he crows delightedly. 

“Yes!” Scott says, pumping his fist in the air. Liam and Mason look equally delighted, Corey looks somewhat apprehensive, and the Sheriff and Deaton just trade resigned looks. 

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I suddenly had an emergency surgery on a German Shepherd, would you,” Deaton says. 

“No way,” Scott says. He pulls open the hall closet and reveals enough paintball guns for each of them. “This going to be epic.”

“Haven’t I spent enough time shooting at you?” Chris asks wryly.

“Come on,” Scott says with a flash of his dimples. “For old times’ sake.”

Finally, Chris sighs and picks up the paintball gun. “You know this is one time where your healing and fighting abilities won’t help you,” he points out.

“Maybe not,” Derek says, “but we still have our speed, hearing, and reflexes.”

Stiles grins at him from across the room. “So it’s a fair fight, then. Humans versus supernaturals.”

The sheriff picks up his own gun and examines it critically. “Sounds fair to me.” He gives Chris an expectant look. “But it is your party, after all.”

Chris stares at them for a minute longer, then smiles. “You’re on,” he declares.

Other than the rough divide into teams, they don’t play by any rules. They tear off into the Preserve, whooping and hollering, and Derek lets himself be swept up in the excitement, the simple and straightforward fun of it. It’s odd to be hiding and stalking without violence as the aim, but it’s also strangely satisfying to use his skills for something as silly as paintball. And Stiles was right-- it’s a surprisingly fair fight. Chris and the sheriff are both excellent shots, of course, and Stiles always has a clever strategy. And then there’s Deaton, who seems to disappear and appear like a wisp of smoke and has the careful aim of a trained sniper. 

Derek has circled away from the main group, looking for a chance to land a hit on Chris, just to rub it in his face later. But it’s Stiles he finds instead, trying to scramble up into the lower limbs of a tree.

“It seems rude to shoot you in the back,” he says to announce his presence, and is pleased when Stiles lets out a muffled curse and drops back to the ground, whirling to face him.

“Freaking werewolves,” Stiles says. “Go on, shoot me.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.” Stiles lowers his own gun. “You snuck up on me, fair and square.”

It still doesn’t seem very sporting. Derek wavers for a moment, torn between wanting to win and wanting to win fair and square, and that’s when Stiles moves, grabbing the gun out of his hands so quickly Derek doesn’t have a chance to hold onto it.

“Ha!” Stiles exclaims. “Fooled you. Oh, Derek. Always so noble.” He pats the gun lovingly and aims it at Derek’s chest. 

“Did you, though?” Derek counters. “Fool me, I mean.”

As Stiles’ finger pulls the trigger, Derek drops to the ground and sweeps Stiles’ feet out from under him, grabbing both guns and tossing them aside. Stiles is on his back, blinking those ridiculously big eyes up at him in surprise, and Derek sucks in a breath at the sight of him, the moonlight filtering through the trees throwing his features into sharp relief.

He wants-- no. This isn’t what this is about. So he just squares his shoulders and offers a hand to pull Stiles back up. “Truce?” he says.

Stiles grumbles at him, but accepts the hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. “Only if by truce you mean we team up and hit Chris with everything we’ve got.”

Derek grins at him, allowing a hint of his fangs to show through his smile. “You’re on.”

They manage to rope everyone else in, and fifteen minutes later, they have Chris cornered in a clearing just inside the entrance to the Preserve, unloading their entire stock of paintballs on him. Chris is laughing, not even trying to fire back anymore, and the sheriff has taken a break to snap a few pictures of him covered in paint splatters, likely to be used as future blackmail material. 

“Told you this was a good idea,” Stiles says smugly, resting his gun on the ground. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, “it was.”

“Was that-- did you just--” Stiles presses a hand to his chest, his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise. “Was that a compliment?”

“If your ego needs it to be, then sure,” Derek replies. 

“Ego,” Stiles snorts. “If you call a desire for the recognition of my genius ego, fine.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Derek warns. It’s the exact opposite of what he wants to say. He wants to tell Stiles all the things he’s thought over the years and never given voice to, all the praise that he’s held back. But it isn’t the right moment. 

The party breaks up after that, all of them heading back to get their cars at the sheriff’s house. Derek waves goodbye to them all, figuring he’ll just head home from there and pick up his car the next morning. Stiles throws a look back over his shoulder as he climbs behind the wheel of the Jeep, but then Scott says something that distracts him, and he looks away from Derek, lost to his conversation with Scott.

Just before they pull out of the parking lot, though, Stiles sticks his head out the window and yells back at Derek. “See you at the wedding! Don’t forget your dancing shoes.”

And if Derek dreams that night of dancing with Stiles, both of them dressed in suits, Stiles beaming at him as Derek twirls him around, well, he can’t be blamed for that, can he?

***

The day of the wedding dawns bright and clear. Derek rolls out of bed at his usual time, goes for a run before it gets too hot, and is just finishing off with some bodyweight exercises when his phone starts beeping at him.

 _HELP_ , the message from Stiles reads. _Scott is finally freaking out and I don’t know what to do with him. Can I send him to you for werewolf therapy?_

Derek snorts as he reads the text, but he’s already typing out his reply. _Fine. But not for long. He has things to do today, like walk his mom down the aisle._

He pulls a t-shirt on and goes to wait on the porch. It isn’t long before he hears Scott approaching through the woods, looking dazed and a bit dejected. 

“Stiles told you I was coming?” he asks as he drops onto the steps beside Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek answers. “Told me you were freaking out. Why now?”

Scott shrugs, but Derek doesn’t push him. If he didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t have come.

“It didn’t feel real until now,” Scott says eventually. “I’m happy for them, I am, it’s just--” he looks up at Derek, and for a moment he looks like the scared kid he was all those years ago, right after Peter bit him and his life went spinning wildly out of his control. 

Derek doesn’t really know what he must be feeling right now. But he knows how frightening it can be, when it feels like everything is changing, even if in a good way. 

“Do you remember when you were first trying to learn to control the shift?” he says. “And I told you to find your anchor?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, frowning, but then understanding dawns on his face. 

“Find your anchor,” Derek repeats. “Whatever it is that’s gotten you to this point, Scott. We’ve faced down--” he laughs, shaking his head. “Pretty much everything I could have imagined, and then some. And you were the one who carried us through all of it. I told you that you were going to be good at this, and you are.”

It’s not like him to be so demonstrative, but he thinks Scott needs to hear it, today of all days, so he reaches out and clasps him firmly by the shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “And I know that your mom and Chris are too.”

Scott looks up at him and manages a shaky smile. “I wouldn’t have made it without you,” he says.

“Sure you would have,” Derek replies gruffly. He’s not used to people looking up to him, not anymore. He can’t deny how good it makes him feel, being spoken to this way again. Like a brother.

Which is why he dares bring up the other thing he’s fairly certain Scott is thinking about. “Is this about Kira?” he asks, trying to keep his tone as judgement-free as possible.

“What?” Scott’s eyes go wide. “No.”

He quails under Derek’s patient gaze, though, his shoulders slumping as he sighs. “Maybe,” he admits. “How do you even know about that, anyway?”

“Gossip travels fast,” Derek replies. He’s not going to tell Scott that it was Stiles who shared that particular piece of information. Not that it would damage their friendship in any way-- Scott and Stiles are unbreakable-- but part of Derek likes having this little secret with Stiles, a shared channel of communication that’s just for the two of them.

“Apparently,” Scott says, shaking his head. “Okay, so I’m a little bit nervous about seeing her again. I just feel like I let her go too easily, like I should have fought harder for her.”

Derek purses his lips as he considers his reply. He’s not at all qualified to be dispensing romantic advice. Stiles would laugh his ass off at the very thought. But then again, he did send Scott here for so-called _werewolf therapy_ , so Derek figures he owes them an effort, at least.

“I never got to know Kira very well,” he says eventually. “But from what I remember, she has a big heart. And a pretty strong will. She did what she had to do, and if she’s coming back now and willing to give you a second chance? Just be grateful for it.”

Scott smiles, then. “Yeah,” he says. “I will be.”

“Go home, Scott,” Derek says lightly. “Hover in the background and let the girls boss you around until it’s time to come back for the ceremony. And call me if you need anything.”

Scott rises to his feet and shakes his head. “No,” he says, his usual conviction returning to his voice. “I’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, smiling up at him. “You do.”

Scott turns to leave, but just before he reaches the trees, he turns back to Derek and says, “Thanks.”

Derek just nods. “See you soon.”

Then he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Stiles. _Crisis averted._

_You’re a lifesaver_ Stiles replies immediately. _What did you do, beat some sense into him?_

Derek huffs a laugh. _No. I just talked to him. Teaching by violence is so four years ago, Stiles._

_You have no idea how happy I am to hear that._

He waits a few more minutes, but Stiles doesn’t send anything else. There’s still a few hours before the wedding, and now that he’s accomplished one thing in calming Scott down, Derek feels restless, unsure how to pass the time. So he goes over the entire house with the vacuum and a dusting cloth, making sure the three guest bedrooms are perfectly tidy in case anyone needs to spend the night there. He checks the fridge and figures it can’t hurt to have a bit of extra food on hand, especially considering the number of supernatural beings with bottomless stomachs who will be in town.

A losing battle against the self-checkout machines at the grocery store adds to the length of his shopping trip, and by the time he gets home, laden with bags full of food, he figures he might as well start getting ready. Rationally, Derek knows very little attention will be on him, but he figures he should put in an effort anyway. So he showers and shaves the beard he’s been too lazy to bother maintaining down to a nice stubble, running his hand over his chin as he considers his outfit options.

Of course, that’s the exact moment his phone chimes with a new text alert. _Wear the dark grey_ is all it says. It’s from Lydia. Derek frowns at it for a moment, unsure if this is some sort of strange banshee talent or just Lydia’s unerring ability to pick up on hesitation and shape it to her own desires. 

The dark grey suit is nice, though. With a crisp white shirt and a narrow black tie, Derek is fairly pleased with the picture he makes. There’s a small part of him that scoffs at such shallow concerns, but the rest of him, the part that’s trying so desperately to have something like a normal life most of the time, thinks it’s not such a bad thing, to care how he looks. 

Maybe that’s progress.

He doesn’t need to bring much with him, especially knowing it won’t take him long to dash home if he forgot anything. So he just slides his phone and a single tissue into his pocket, locks the door to his house and hides the key above the door frame where only someone who can jump supernaturally high can reach it. 

Surprisingly, he’s not the first one to arrive at the small clearing where the ceremony is being held. Scott is standing in the shade of a massive tree, greeting the guests as they arrive, looking surprisingly mature in his black suit and red tie. Derek grins at the thought of him picking it to match his eyes and makes his way towards him.

“You clean up nice,” he tells him. 

Scott beams at him. “Derek! You made it.”

“Did you think I was going to get lost?” Derek asks, frowning.

“No, but we did worry you would decide it was all too much social interaction and retreat to your den alone,” Lydia says breezily as she comes up beside him. She gives him a slow sweep with her eyes, all the way from head to toe, and then nods approvingly. “I see you took my excellent advice.”

“I had to do my best to get anywhere near the bar you’re setting,” he says, only half-joking. Lydia looks absolutely stunning in her light green silk dress, and her lips curve into a pleased smile at Derek’s words. 

“I do have high standards for us all,” she says, nodding. “I made Jordan change outfits, what, a dozen times?”

“Only because you like watching me change out of them so much,” Parrish mutters as he slides an arm around her waist, pressing a fond kiss to her cheek. Derek doesn’t think anyone else was meant to hear that, but for all his training and all his strength, Parrish still sometimes forgets basic things like how well the wolves can hear. 

“Come along, boys,” Lydia says quickly, attempting to cover the flush in her cheeks and pulling Derek and Parrish along with her. “Let’s get to our seats.”

She guides them to the second row, where Liam, Corey, and Mason and Malia are already waiting. Derek sits down beside Malia, who gives him an expectant look as he nods a greeting at her.

“Where’s Stiles?” she asks.

That’s a very good question. Derek twists in his seat, but he can’t catch Stiles’ scent, not with so many other bodies in such a small space. Then Malia’s words sink in fully and he turns back to her with a frown. “Why are you asking me that?”

She stares at him for a moment, as though she can’t believe she turned back into a human only to have to deal with this level of stupidity. “Because it’s Stiles,” she says.

It isn’t an answer, but it also is. Derek scowls at her and twists in his seat again, this time catching a whiff of something that isn’t Stiles but is close: the sheriff. Derek lifts a hand in greeting as Stilinski settles into a seat in the row across from them, and the sheriff waves back. 

Where is Stiles? Derek watches as the seats slowly start to fill in around them, as he sees Kira and her parents arrive and Scott nearly trip over a tree root at the sight of her, her hair longer again, spilling over the straps of her vibrant yellow dress. Mr. and Mrs. Yukimura exchange amused glances and join the sheriff in his row, leaving Kira and Scott to catch up. Derek could focus his hearing and listen in, but he wants to give them this private moment, even if Stiles will be disappointed in him for not eavesdropping. 

Distracted, he doesn’t notice someone approaching until he feels a warm body slide into the empty seat beside him, Stiles’ scent filling his nostrils. “What did I miss?” Stiles asks, glancing at him. 

He looks unfairly good in his navy suit, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it in anticipation or frustration all morning. 

“The whole thing,” Derek tells him, trying to cover his reaction to Stiles’ appearance. He can see Malia eyeing him suspiciously, probably noting the change in his scent, and he shuts his eyes for a second to get himself back under control. “The vows, the kiss, the whole thing.”

“You may have put on a nice suit and trimmed that beard of yours, but you’re still not funny,” Stiles informs him loftily. His gaze lingers on Derek’s face, on his shoulders, and Derek carefully holds himself still under those appraising eyes, trying not to get carried away in wondering what Stiles is thinking.

“I’ll leave the funny toasts to you, then,” Derek shoots back, taking refuge in their usual banter. 

“Buddy, I am so ready for that,” Stiles says, clapping him on the back. 

“Shh!” Malia says, sitting up straight in her seat. “Something’s happening.”

Instantly alert, Derek mimics her posture, but Stiles rolls his eyes and presses him back down with a firm hand. “She just means it’s starting,” he says. “Calm down, big guy.”

Derek pointedly ignores his statement, focusing instead on the warmth of Stiles’ hand where it splays across his chest. He inhales deeply, feeling the pressure shift as he does, and only after an excruciatingly long minute does Stiles move his hand away.

From behind them, a single violinist begins to play, and Chris comes to stand under the arch of twining vines and roses that has been erected in the centre of the clearing. Derek has seen him face down all manner of threats, but he’s never detected this note of nervousness in Chris’ scent until now. It brings a fond smile to his face as he realizes how important this moment must be to him, to feel that way now.

The music changes to a familiar theme, and every head in the crowd swivels to watch as Melissa makes her way down the aisle, escorted by Scott. They’re both beaming, identical smiles on their faces, and Melissa looks absolutely radiant in her deep red dress, her dark curls loose over her shoulders. 

Scott and Melissa reach the front of the rows of seats, and he pulls her into a tight hug as the guests sigh in unison, touched by the scene. As they break apart, Chris steps forward and pulls Scott into an embrace of his own, and Derek can already hear a few discreet sniffles running through the crowd. He’s thankful he packed that tissue, now.

After Scott takes his seat, Chris and Melissa stand hand-in-hand, unable to take their eyes off each other. Deaton clears his throat softly, looking less mysterious than usual, and when the crowd settles, he begins.

“Dear friends,” he says, “we are gathered here today to witness the declaration of love and partnership between Melissa McCall and Chris Argent.” Deaton pauses for a moment, a small smile hovering around his lips. “And to celebrate their love, which has flourished despite the difficult circumstances under which it was formed.”

“Love is a wonderful thing,” Deaton continues, “and one which many of us never truly achieve full understanding of. It can bring us strength, offer us guidance, influence our decisions in ways we cannot imagine. It can survive in the darkest hours, and can turn that darkness back to light. It can overwhelm us, and surprise us, and if we are very, very lucky, it can touch us more than once in our lifetimes.”

The slightest shadow falls over Chris’ face, and Derek squirms uncomfortably in his seat at the reminder of Victoria Argent, of the role he played in her death. He knows it wasn’t his fault, and that Chris knows that equally well, but it’s not something he can easily forget. Stiles notices his movement, and without even looking at him, lays a gentle hand on Derek’s sleeve, calming him with just that barest touch. 

“Chris and Melissa are very, very lucky indeed,” Deaton says, “and I am honoured that they have asked me to be here with them today, to seal their partnership with an exchange of vows and of rings.” He produces two glinting metal bands from his pocket and holds them out to the bride and groom. “Chris, you may begin.”

There’s a hint of a waver in Chris’ voice as he begins, but it steadies as he looks into Melissa’s eyes. “Melissa,” he says, “there was a point in my life when I thought I had lost everything. When I thought I had nothing left to live for, that the best thing I could do was give my life to help save someone else’s. But then somehow, without even realizing it, I found my way back, and you were the light that guided me along the way.” 

Derek hears a sound suspiciously like a sob from Malia and discreetly passes her his tissue. She glares at him, but accepts it, dabbing lightly at her eyes as Chris continues.

“After everything we’ve been through, I have only grown to admire and respect you more, for your bravery, your compassion, your enduring hope,” Chris says. “I love you, and I promise to fight beside you, this day and all the days of my life.”

He slides the simple gold ring onto Melissa’s finger, and she smiles at him with such affection in her eyes that Derek can almost taste it in the quiet summer air. 

“Melissa, it’s your turn,” Deaton says.

“Chris,” she starts, then has to pause to brush aside a tear despite the pure happiness in her voice. “I’ve had a lot of surprises in my life.”

There’s a ripple of laughter from the crowd, all of whom know exactly what she’s referring to, and Derek sees Scott duck his head slightly to hide his broad grin. 

“But I can honestly say, nothing has surprised or delighted me more than you,” Melissa says. “As you said, we’ve been through so much together already, and I’m looking forward to whatever else life throws our way, knowing we’ll be facing it together.”

Stiles’ hand is still resting on Derek’s sleeve, and he feels it twitch slightly as the scent of salt from Stiles’ tears hits him. He wants to hold Stiles’ hand, to enclose it in his own, to feel those clever fingers still under his grip and then hold tight to him. 

Melissa slips the ring onto Chris’ finger, and Deaton smiles, maybe the most genuine expression of happiness Derek has ever seen from him, and says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Chris, you may--”

Before he has even finished speaking, Chris is lifting Melissa off her feet in a rapturous kiss. He spins her around, her skirt swirling around her, as the crowd bursts into cheers and applause. And as they break apart and she throws back her head, laughing, even Derek feels a tear threatening to spill down his cheek.

They’ve come so far, all of them. 

There are no formal photographs, no receiving line, none of the usual traditions. Neither Chris nor Melissa care about such things. They didn’t even bother with a wedding party. So a few of the guests pitch in to roll out the round tables around the edges of the clearing and move the chairs around them, leaving the middle empty for dancing. 

Once the space has been cleared, Danny sets up his speakers at the makeshift DJ booth and the music starts as Chris and Melissa make their way to the middle of the area for their first dance. They’re completely lost in each other, Chris’ hand low on her back and her head resting on his chest as they sway together and David Gray croons softly from the stereo. They finish the dance to more applause, and then the music changes to something loud and raucous and people begin joining them, dancing without a care in the world. 

No matter how hard he tries, that’s simply not in Derek’s nature. He grabs a glass of punch from the drink table just to look busy, then strolls around the perimeter, scanning through the trees and keeping alert for any potential threats. If someone-- Monroe and her hunters, some other as-yet-unknown threat-- wanted to stage an attack, now would be the perfect time. Derek isn’t about to let that happen, not on his territory, not to his pack. 

He hears footsteps approaching, but doesn’t turn. “Patrolling?” Liam guesses, coming to join him.

Derek just shrugs. 

“Or trying not to look ridiculous because you don’t have anyone to dance with?”

That earns him a glare. Liam holds up his hands in surrender, but he’s fighting back a grin, and after a moment, Derek smiles back at him. “Maybe,” he admits. “But I feel better knowing I’m not the only one.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Liam says, turning serious. “Let Scott enjoy the night off. Let someone else worry for a change.”

He’s grown up well, Scott’s beta. There’s serious potential in him, young as he is. And it’s good to know Derek isn’t the only one who wants to make sure nothing goes wrong tonight. So he claps Liam on the back and says, “Let me know when you want to trade off.”

“Let me know if you need a dance partner,” Liam calls back, and Derek flashes his eyes at him with a low growl before turning away.

He doesn’t need to dance with anyone. Though he has spotted someone who would probably take pity on him if required.

“Braeden,” he says, coming to join her. She’s wearing black, of course, looking clever and capable and gorgeous as ever. “You’re late.”

She shrugs fluidly. “Job gets in the way,” she says.

Derek knows that all too well. And he’s never been upset about it. “It’s good to see you,” he tells her, and he means it. She was good to him, in her own way. To all of them. 

“You too,” she says, softening slightly. “How are you, Derek?”

It’s his turn to shrug. “Same as ever.”

She tilts her head at him, considering. “I don’t think that’s true,” she says slowly. “But I think that’s a good thing.”

Braeden always did have a way of seeing right through him. So he lets his eyes drift towards Stiles, who is currently dancing with Melissa, the two of them grinning wildly, and allows Braeden to follow the direction of his gaze. 

When she turns back to meet his eyes, she just smiles and punches him in the shoulder. “Good for you,” she says. 

“It’s not-- we haven’t--” Derek says, sighing. 

“But you want to,” she says.

He’s never admitted it, never spoken of it to anyone. “Yeah,” he says, and it feels good to let the words out into the warm summer night. “I want to.”

“No time like the present,” Braeden says, stealing his glass of punch. “I’ll hold this. You go cut in. I’m sure there are plenty of others who want to dance with the bride anyway.”

Derek tries to protest, but she basically pushes him onto the dance floor, and once he’s there, it would look more foolish to attempt to retreat. Conveniently, the song is coming to an end, so he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and walks over to Stiles and Melissa.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks.

“I’d love to, Derek,” Melissa responds warmly, and before Derek can even clarify, before he can apologize or say something to Stiles, who doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss, Melissa has swept him up to the beat of the song.

He had been hoping to get a chance to talk to her anyway, he supposes. And when has anything in his life ever gone according to plan? So he just offers her a smile and says, “You look beautiful.”

Melissa smiles, shaking her head at him. “Flatterer,” she says. “But thank you.”

Derek can feel someone’s eyes on them, and as they twirl around, he sees Chris dancing with Noshiko, but still looking at Melissa. “He can’t take his eyes off you,” Derek tells her.

Blushing slightly, Melissa looks over her shoulder and blows Chris a kiss, which causes him to stumble slightly. Gracefully, Noshiko keeps him steady, and exchanges an amused glance with Derek. “Newlyweds,” she mouths at him, shaking her head. Derek grins at her and lifts Melissa up in a spin, just to make her laugh again.

“It’s good to see you smiling,” she says as he carefully lowers her back to her feet. 

Disarmed by the affection in her voice, Derek ducks his head. It’s fond and familiar and if he dares to think it, maternal. He isn’t quite sure what he’s done to deserve it, but it warms him all the same.

“It’s good to have a reason to smile,” he tells her.

The song ends, and Chris comes to claim another dance with his new wife. Derek bows out gracefully, and then he’s left somewhat adrift as the music slows down again. Scott is leading Kira out onto the floor with an expression of pure, concentrated joy on his face, Parrish and Lydia are wrapped in each other’s arms, looking more normal than two supernatural beings with a connection to death ought to, Braeden is dancing with the sheriff, and even Stiles and Malia have paired off. It doesn’t hurt Derek, looking at them, because he’s aware that there’s a history there and that it’s just that: history. 

He’s far more concerned about the future. 

Just for something to do, he picks up the scattered napkins and empty glasses from the nearby tables and disposes of them. The breeze has started to pick up, but he doesn’t smell rain on the air, which is good. He doesn’t want anything to put a damper on this day. 

A small hand closes over the last glass before he can reach it, the nails painted bright red. “I’ve got it,” Kira says, offering him a shy smile. 

Derek immediately looks around for Scott, surprised to see they’ve managed to separate themselves, and sees him dancing with Melissa. Kira looks as adrift as he is at the moment, so he nods peaceably at her and they head to the next table, tidying as they go. 

He isn’t one for small talk, but he’s genuinely curious about Kira’s time away, about her training and about her abilities. And the good thing about having a reputation as a poor communicator is that no one expects him to be tactful. So after a few minutes of companionable silence, he asks, “Are you back for good?”

She doesn’t seem surprised or offended at his question. She just looks up and gives him a nod. “I hope so,” she says. “I’ve learned a lot. But I need to live my own life, not just the life of a kitsune.”

He follows her gaze to where Scott is leading his mother across the dance floor, and watches the way her expression goes soft and fond at the sight. “Does it get easier?” she asks, not looking at him. “Balancing the human and the not-human parts of your life?”

Derek doesn’t think he’s the best person to answer that question. “I’ve known who-- and what-- I was for my entire life,” he says, shrugging. “There’s nothing purely human about it. But after all the things we’ve seen, the things we’ve survived, I think we could all benefit from a bit of balance.”

“This is a good start,” Kira says, indicating the scene around them. 

She’s right. Even though most of the guests either have supernatural abilities or are aware of them, it feels like a night off, like a step back from the chaos of their lives. 

And maybe because of that, because Derek’s had enough of doom and gloom and what Stiles calls his scowling eyebrows, he gives Kira a pointed look and says, “You and Scott certainly seem to be starting something again.”

Without skipping a beat, Kira calls sparks to her fingertips and raises a challenging eyebrow at Derek. She stares at him, and he stares back, until his upper lip starts to twitch and he finally gives in to his laughter. She breaks down the second he does, and they’re still standing there, laughing like kids, when Scott wanders over to join them.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, which only sets Kira off further. She can barely keep herself upright, she’s laughing so hard.

“Well, they’re going to cut the cake, so you might want to calm down,” Scott tells her, shaking his head. “Come on, I saved us seats at the front.”

He tugs both Kira and Derek after him, leading them to one of the tables closest to where the wedding cake is proudly displayed. Lydia, Parrish, and the sheriff are already seated there, and Derek nods at them in greeting as he takes one of the remaining seats. 

Barely a second later, Stiles flings himself into the last chair, crowing in triumph as Malia crosses her arms over her chest. “Beat you!” he exclaims. “I was a musical chairs champion as a kid, you know. Lightning-fast reflexes.”

Malia nods, but over Stiles’ head, she catches Derek’s inquisitive look and rolls her eyes. She definitely let him win. 

Efficient as ever, Lydia solves the problem by promptly dropping herself onto Parrish’s lap, indicating that Malia should take her now-empty chair. Parrish doesn’t even miss a beat in his conversation with the sheriff, his arms coming up to keep Lydia in place without a second’s hesitation. 

It’s such a small movement, but it speaks volumes. Derek feels his throat tighten as he watches the way Lydia settles herself and turns to talk to Malia, the way she and Parrish seem to fit together so well. He can’t imagine that kind of intimacy, that kind of synchronicity, but he yearns for it so desperately, he almost lets loose a howl.

Fortunately, he’s soon distracted by Chris and Melissa making their way up to the table, both of them beaming. Chris picks up the knife and flips it expertly while Melissa pretends to swoon, then they join hands and slice into the cake, the scene lit by all the flashes going off as everyone tries to capture the moment. Derek doesn’t bother-- he knows he’ll remember everything about this night even without photographs. 

Though he will probably have to ask Stiles for a copy of a shot of Chris with cake smeared all over his face. For future blackmail purposes.

Stiles, who is currently climbing to his feet, tapping the side of his glass with a fork, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Oh no,” Lydia murmurs. “Here we go.”

Scott gives her a pleading look. “Let him do this,” he whispers. “He’s been talking about it for ages.”

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Stiles calls out. The chatter dies down, and he waves in acknowledgement. “Thank you, everyone.”

He takes a moment to survey the crowd, then continues. “To Chris and Melissa,” he says, raising his glass. “As most of you know, our lives are...complicated, to put it mildly.” There’s a light ripple of laughter from the assembled guests. “And they have been for a long time now. I’ve known Melissa for most of my life, but I only met Chris when I was sixteen, the same year everything changed for a lot of us gathered here tonight.”

Derek sneaks a glance at the newlyweds, who are listening intently to Stiles’ speech, Chris with an arm wrapped around Melissa and Melissa with her chin propped on her hands, a fond expression on her face as she looks at Stiles.

“They’ve saved all of our lives on more than a few occasions,” Stiles continues, “and that’s not an exaggeration. And they’ve taken all of us under their wings, which I can tell you with absolutely certainty that my father appreciates. We’ve learned a lot from you two.” He stops for a moment and shakes his head. “I’ve learned a lot from you two,” he corrects himself. “About courage, about grace under fire, about moving forward after loss. And about love in the face of overwhelming odds. Thank you for inspiring us, and thank you for letting us share this day with you.” 

He salutes them with his glass, and then takes a long swallow. The crowd bursts into applause, and Derek is fairly certain he can see tears shining in Melissa’s eyes. Even Lydia looks impressed.

Stiles throws himself back into his seat and grins at Derek. “Told you I had the toasts handled.”

“I didn’t laugh once,” Derek tells him.

“But you did feel things, didn’t you?” Stiles says knowingly. He reaches out and pats Derek’s chest. “Right here.”

Derek scowls at him, but is saved from answering by Scott getting to his feet. Melissa presses a hand to her mouth, clearly surprised at this turn of events, and Derek can already tell Scott’s trademark earnestness will move even the most stoic among them to tears.

“Congratulations, Mom,” Scott begins, and Melissa makes a choke noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And Chris.” He takes a deep breath, his mouth twisting slightly. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined myself making a joke about calling you Dad, but here we are.”

Lydia makes a small noise, and Stiles reaches for her hand, squeezing it gently. Derek looks away, back towards Chris, whose own eyes have gone soft with bittersweet emotion.

“I think Allison would be really happy for you,” Scott continues, his voice thick. “For both of you. I wasn’t going to talk about her, but I think we should. I think we should honour her memory, and celebrate how much she loved us all, because I know she would want that for us. I think she would want us to remember not to take anything for granted, not with the way we live.”

Derek can hear sniffling from all around him, but Scott remains composed. “Chris,” he says, “you’ve been there for me in every way, for years now. And I’m so happy that you and my mom found each other, because you both deserve this. Maybe it’s not the Argent-McCall wedding I dreamed of when I was sixteen, but I’m still so glad to have you as part of my family now.”

“Are you crying?” Stiles hisses from beside him. “Oh my god, Derek, you are.”

“Shut up,” Derek mutters. He risks a glance at Stiles and sees that his own cheeks are wet. “So are you.”

“And Mom,” Scott says, beaming at her, “you are the most badass, amazing, inspiring person I’ve ever known. You’ve handled everything that has been thrown our way with--” he breaks off, shaking his head. “I don’t even know how to describe it. I love  
you so much, Mom, and I’m so proud of you.”

He picks up his glass off the table and raises it in the air. “To the happy couple,” he says.

His words are echoed by the rest of the guests, and then he’s practically sprinting over to the other table, wrapping both Chris and Melissa in an embrace. 

This time, Derek does take a picture. 

After they finally break apart, Melissa stands, wiping her face. “Okay, enough sappy stuff,” she declares. “Danny get the dancing going again!”

“Thank god,” Malia says, shooting up from her seat. “Come on.” 

Derek is hanging back, still hesitant about the whole dancing thing, but it’s pretty hard to argue with Malia when she growls softly at him while also shooting him pleading looks. With a sigh, he allows himself to be tugged out to the centre of the clearing with the rest of the group.

And strangely enough, it’s fun. There’s less pressure when they’re all being silly together, and Derek finally relaxes his guard, letting himself just enjoy the moment in a way he’s entirely unaccustomed to doing. 

His jacket gets abandoned at one point, his tie loosened around his neck, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. Scott has his tie wrapped around one arm, Lydia has gotten frustrated with her free-flowing curls and messily gathered them into a bun on the top of her head, and Malia has somehow managed to change into shorts and a tank top without anyone noticing. 

He doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until he looks around and notices that a number of guests have departed, including Deaton and the sheriff. Chris and Melissa are at the other end of the clearing, saying their goodbyes as people leave.  
After a few more songs, he makes his way back to the table and drops into a seat, watching as the DJ announces the last song of the evening and Chris leads Melissa out to dance one more time. A few seconds later, Stiles falls onto the seat beside him with his usual grace.

“Not dancing?” Derek asks.

“Malia hates slow songs,” Stiles replies easily. “She took off as soon as this one started. Went for a run.”

Derek nods slowly. He isn’t worried about her. She can take care of herself, and if she runs into any trouble, she’ll call for help.

They sit in silence, watching the dancers. Derek wonders if this is his chance, if he’s letting it pass by, but Stiles is never the hesitant one. If he wanted to dance with Derek, he would just drag him out there himself. 

“This was a good night,” Stiles says, softer than usual.

Derek looks over at him, the way the moonlight outlines the sharp line of his cheekbones, the tilt of his nose. “It was,” he agrees. “It is.”

Stiles gives him a sidelong look. “Too bad about the weather, though,” he says.

Frowning, Derek looks up at the cloudless night sky. “We had perfect weather.”

“I was hoping for rain,” Stiles says easily. “So we’d have to retreat to your house, and I’d finally get to see inside.”

Derek licks his lips. He could brush it off, make a joke, find some way to deflect Stiles’ statement. But instead, he says, “Do you want to?”

Stiles turns to look at him, his mouth slightly parted in surprise, and Derek meets his gaze steadily. He’s glad Stiles can’t hear how rapidly his heart is beating, can’t pinpoint the nervousness in his scent. 

After what seems like an eternity, a tiny smile curls onto Stiles’ lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Derek nods towards the others still on the dance floor. “Do you want to say goodnight?”

“Nah,” Stiles replies. “They’ll figure it out. I already promised to come back in the morning to help clean up.”

There’s nothing more to say, so Derek gathers the pieces of his discarded outfit and stands, leading Stiles towards his house. Just as they step out of the clearing, he sees Scott lift his head, his eyes flashing red as he looks at them, and Derek lets his own eyes glow as he nods back at Scott. It’s an unspoken agreement, and Derek is glad that Scott doesn’t make a scene, because he doesn’t want to break this fragile thing building between him and Stiles. 

The patio lights that Stiles strung up around his front porch twinkle warmly as they approach, and Derek smiles at the sight of them. He thinks he might keep them up permanently. Stiles laughs when he jumps up to retrieve the key from above the door, but goes quiet as Derek pushes it open and beckons him inside.

“So,” Derek says, nervous for reasons he can’t even explain, “this is the house.”

Stiles traces a gentle hand over the low table in the entryway, the small bowl where Derek keeps his car keys, the frame of the mirror above it. “Show me the rest,” he requests, and Derek just nods and leads him further inside.

“I tried to keep the original floor plan as much as possible,” he says. “The living room at the front, here, then the dining room and the kitchen all the way across the back. But I changed a lot of the colours and the furnishings, obviously.”

“The green looks good in here,” Stiles says, nodding at the walls. “I told you it would.”

“You did,” Derek agrees. “And you were right.”

Stiles grins at him. “And the kitchen--” he lets out a low whistle as he rounds the corner and takes it all in, the breakfast island and the huge window that looks out onto the trees. “God, Derek, this is amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Derek says roughly. 

_It’s all for you_ , he wants to scream. All those hours discussing paint colours, table and chair combinations, how many bathrooms were required in a house this size. Stiles’ presence is already built into the very bones of his home, but that isn’t enough for Derek.

He wants Stiles here with him, now and forever.

Stiles, who’s giving him a decidedly coy look from under his eyelashes, his chin tilted invitingly. “So, do I get to see upstairs, too?”

Derek surges forward and Stiles meets him halfway, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that has had years to gather its intensity. Stiles laughs into his mouth and Derek chases the taste of it, the taste of him, intoxicating and addictive. He’s warm and solid in Derek’s arms, long limbs twining around him like he never wants to let go, sighing into the kiss like it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Finally, Derek pulls back to look at him, the way his golden brown eyes have gone soft and bright, the way his lips are swollen from their kisses. “Stiles,” he says, helpless. “I--”

“I know,” Stiles says, reaching out to touch Derek’s face, running it over his stubbled jaw. Derek turns his head and presses a kiss to his palm and Stiles inhales sharply, then lets his breath out on a sigh. “God, Derek, you’re so--”

Then Derek is kissing him again, unable to resist the way Stiles’ body curves towards him in invitation, the way he throws himself into it with his trademark recklessness. But it isn’t impulsive, this new level of physical intimacy. It has been building slowly for years, both of them waiting for the right time to set it free.

And now that it’s free, it’s a wild thing, untamed and irrepressible. Derek backs them up so Stiles is pressed against the kitchen counter, then lifts him easily to deposit him atop it. Stiles grins at him and lets his legs fall open so Derek can slot between them, his hands at Stiles’ waist, pulling him as close as possible.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles groans. He tips his head to the side, shameless in his want, and Derek scrapes his teeth ever so lightly against the long line of his neck, watching the way Stiles shudders at the sensation. He wants to catalogue every shiver that wracks Stiles’ body, every noise that passes his lips, every minute movement he makes. 

But he slows, pulls away, rests his forehead against Stiles’ and breathes slowly, letting their heartbeats settle into sync. “You expressed an interest in seeing the upstairs?” he asks, one side of his mouth curving up.

Stiles laughs, breathless. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, please.”

It’s easy enough to pick Stiles up, to keep his legs wrapped around Derek’s body, to carry him up the stairs as Stiles laughs warmly in his ear, to kick open the door to the master bedroom and deposit Stiles gently on the bed. The moonlight streams in through the large bay window and Stiles stops laughing, eyes going wide as he looks around the room.

“It looks amazing,” he says. “You did an amazing job, Derek.”

Derek ducks his head, not wanting to show how pleased this makes him, but Stiles won’t let him look away. He spreads himself out on the bed like he belongs there (because he does) and gives Derek a slow, thoughtful smile. “Come here,” he says, patting the space beside him, and Derek does.

Carefully, reverently, he undresses Stiles, peeling back his layers to reveal the long lines and lithe muscles of him, the moles and freckles that dot his body like constellations that Derek will study with unhurried dedication. Stiles arches into his touch and murmurs nonsense under his breath as Derek covers him in kisses, makes him squirm when he brushes his lips against the muscles of his stomach. He’s so beautiful it nearly hurts, and when he’s completely uncovered, Stiles meets his eyes and grins a challenge up at him. 

“Your turn,” he says.

Derek has never had cause to feel shame or modesty about his body. Clothes are always getting ruined, what with all the fighting they do, and stripping off a shirt is practically second nature to him at this point. But his hands tremble as he undoes the buttons on his shirt, as Stiles watches him with intense focus, one hand resting lightly on his bare stomach, tantalizingly close to his erection. “Can I--” Stiles asks, licking his lips, and Derek groans, because he’s already coming undone and they’re just getting started.

“Yeah,” he says. “Touch yourself.”

Stiles takes his lower lip between his teeth as he gently begins to stroke his cock, eyes still locked on Derek as he removes his shirt and then pulls off his pants as elegantly as possible, grateful for the gift of supernatural balance. Stiles is unusually quiet, but Derek can hear the tiny hitches in his breathing, the slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, and it lends speed to his movements, wanting to be the one who draws more pretty sounds out of Stiles.

When he’s as naked as Stiles, he waits patiently, letting Stiles look his fill. There’s appreciation in his gaze, admiration and lust darkening the colour of his eyes, but there’s also tenderness in the set of his mouth and the slow way he strokes himself. Stiles’ eyes linger on the centre of his chest, on his shoulders, all the places that would be covered in scars if not for his ability to heal. After a long moment, he reaches out his free hand to Derek and draws him down on top of him, their mouths meeting once more.

Every inch of Derek’s body is sensitive to Stiles’ touch, and now that he’s done looking, Stiles explores him with those graceful, clever hands, running them over Derek’s back, down his arms, teasing over the swell of his ass and making Derek buck against him. Stiles laughs, but takes the sting out of it with another kiss, and Derek surrenders to it, surrenders to the moment. 

“You feel incredible,” Stiles sighs as he arches beneath him, as Derek props himself up on his elbows and presses a kiss to the centre of Stiles’ chest. “You’re unreal, Derek, I swear.”

“I’m real,” Derek insists. He kisses Stiles again, slow and deep, letting their lower bodies come into contact and making Stiles hiss as their cocks brush together. “This is real.”

“I know,” Stiles gasps, “I know.”

This close, the warmth of him is overwhelming. Derek rocks his hips forward, aligning their bodies so that his cock rubs against Stiles’ hip with every move he makes. There are a million things he wants to do with Stiles, but there will be time for that later. Right now, he just wants to make Stiles fall apart completely, to hear his name spill from those kiss-swollen lips, to cover this bed in their combined scents. 

So he pulls away for a moment and slides down the bed, noting the way Stiles’ eyes go wide as he realizes Derek’s intent, and after his choked cry of permission, wraps his lips around Stiles’ cock. 

Stiles swears and thrusts forward, almost lifting off the bed, so Derek settles one hand at his hip to keep him steady as he works him with lips and tongue. Stiles’ hands drift downward and settle in his hair, and Derek arches into his touch as he redoubles his efforts. It won’t take long, he knows. Stiles is chanting his name under his breath and shifting restlessly despite Derek’s hand on his hip. 

“Derek,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, “I’m going to--”

But Derek doesn’t pull away, and Stiles comes with a low cry. Derek takes it all, working him through his orgasm until Stiles gently pushes him aside. “Your turn,” he says again, opening his eyes once again. He reaches down and tugs Derek towards him, and Derek allows himself to be positioned across Stiles’ body, straddling him, so that Stiles can reach out and wrap his hand around Derek’s cock.

“Stiles,” he warns, “I’m not going to--”

“I don’t care,” Stiles says fiercely. “Come on, Derek. Let me see you.”

He’s looking at Derek the same way he did before, with that overwhelming combination of appreciation and affection in his eyes, and when Derek finally relaxes his control and lets his climax take him, it’s with Stiles’ eyes locked on his and his voice ringing in his ears.

Careful not to crush Stiles beneath him, Derek rolls off him and onto the bed, trying to get his breathing back under control. Stiles lets out a sigh of contentment and props himself up on one elbow, looking down into Derek’s face.

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” Derek replies. He closes his eyes as Stiles reaches out and traces the line of his jaw, leaning greedily into the touch. It’s been so long since someone touched him like this, and now that he’s had it from Stiles, he doesn’t think he could go without it again. 

“Is this the mattress I picked out?” Stiles asks.

Lost in his thoughts, it takes a moment for Derek to register the question. “Yes?” he answers. 

Stiles’ eyes sweep over his face, considering. “Just like the paint colour downstairs,” he says.

“Yeah.” Derek holds his gaze, knowing it won’t take long for Stiles to put the pieces together.

And it doesn’t. “Derek,” Stiles says, eyes wide, “have you been-- have you been building this house for me?”

“For us,” Derek says softly. “Hoping to, anyway.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles mutters, flushing a shade of pink Derek idly thinks would look gorgeous as an accent colour in the guest bedroom, “you’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Is that a good thing?” Derek asks, trying to keep his tone light.

Stiles stares at him for a long moment. “If you think it’s anything but,” he says eventually, “then you haven’t learned anything at all, dumbass.”

Then he leans over and presses his lips to Derek’s, without hurry this time. Derek moans low in his throat and melts back against the mattress, which is firmer than he would have thought he would like but is actually perfect. There’s a reason he trusts Stiles with these things. 

Stiles pulls away and looks down at him, shaking his head. “The house is perfect,” he says. “God, I still can’t believe you-- is this some kind of werewolf courting thing? Did you make me a den?”

Derek growls at him, letting his eyes shine for a second, and Stiles crows with delight. “It is, isn’t it,” he says. 

“Maybe,” Derek concedes. “But it’s also-- I don’t know. This place is too big for just me. It’s somewhere we can have our friends come to visit, somewhere we could have used tonight if it had rained. Somewhere that belongs to us. All of us.”

“You’re such a sap,” Stiles says fondly. “But lucky for you, I’m really, really into it. Into you.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, fighting back a smile.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You and your perfect house and your perfect little bunny teeth and your perfect, noble guard patrol thing tonight, I mean, did you think I didn’t notice, Derek, you were walking around like it was a castle and you had  
taken some oath of protection--”

Derek cuts him off with a kiss, just because he can. Stiles surrenders to it for a moment, then pulls away. “And your perfect kissing technique, which I can now conclusively say is as good as I always imagined it to be,” he finishes. “You made me wait a long time to determine that one, you know.”

“We weren’t ready,” Derek says softly. He’s thought about this, wondered if he should have made a move earlier. But Stiles was so young, and Derek was so damaged, and he thinks the years have done them both some good. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I know,” Stiles replies, equally soft. “And I mean, it’s not like everything is perfect and beautiful now either, you know? Monroe is still out there, gunning for us, and the Nemeton is still active and like half a mile away from this house, summoning god knows what to Beacon Hills, and I’m still going to be chasing bad guys around the country, but--”

He breaks off and shrugs. “It’ll be nice to have somewhere to come home to. Someone to come home to.”

Derek can imagine it perfectly: sitting on the porch, or in the kitchen, catching a whiff of Stiles’ scent or the rumble of his Jeep as he approaches the house. Greeting him with a kiss and talking over his latest case. Inviting Scott and Kira over for dinner, or going out to some event at Lydia’s insistence. 

“Yeah,” he says, “it will be.”

Stiles yawns, raising a hand to his mouth to cover it. Derek reaches out and grabs it, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ palm, and tugs him closer so that their legs tangle together, Stiles’ head resting on his chest. 

“We have to help clean up in the morning,” Stiles reminds him, his eyes drifting closed. 

“I know,” Derek says quietly. “I’ll be up.”

“Yeah you will,” Stiles replies, stroking a hand down Derek’s side. “Morning sex, mmn.”

Derek laughs and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Looking forward to it,” he says, his own eyes slipping shut. 

He inhales deeply, taking in the scent of Stiles’ body, the cotton sheets beneath them, the traces of fresh paint that linger on the walls, all mixed with the warm air blowing in through the open window. It’s a good house that he’s built, he thinks. 

And it’s a good life that he and Stiles are going to build together.


End file.
